


To Love What is Not

by ladydirewolf1



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, PTSD John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-01
Updated: 2016-02-20
Packaged: 2018-05-17 13:12:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5870941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladydirewolf1/pseuds/ladydirewolf1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How can you love whom they say never even existed?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Shell Shocked](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/172786) by Nyah86Production. 



            There was a knock on the door. “Dr. Watson? They’ve been expecting you at the prescription counter.”

            John glanced over his shoulder at the smiling nurse. He nodded and looked back at the grey-tinged morning provided by his small window. The dismal scene was made no better by the steel bars half-way obscuring the view. “Very well, then. I’ll be right out,” he answered quietly. His eyes swept once more over the hazy office buildings and apartments, searching, hoping, that he’d see it once more. When John was confident that there was nothing in the window but brightly-colored tourists and hurried businesspeople on their morning commute, he made his way out into the hall. The door, as always, locked behind him with a faint _click._

After making his way through the busy corridor (and making sure to give wide berth to Dr. M, the hospital’s director), John halted in front of the small counter.

            “Moring, Doctor—” He froze, the end of the greeting vanishing as John saw the face looking back at him. _Dark hair, pale skin, sharp cheekbones…no, not him. It can’t be._ John shook his head, and the image disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. The man before him adjusted the silver spectacles framing his deep brown eyes.

            “Roberts,” he said, with just a hint of confusion masked by false cheeriness. I’m taking over for Dr. Lee. Is everything quite all right?”

            “What? Oh, yes…fine,” John stammered out, at last able to find his words. “It’s just…well…I was just surprised to see someone new working the counter, that’s all.” He pursed his lips and averted the new doctor’s eyes.

            Actually, John hadn’t been surprised at all; Dr. Lee had told him that she’d be resigning a week ago. He’d frozen at the new doctor for an entirely different reason...a reason he could never share. Not in a place like this.

            “Well then, here you go,” said Dr. Roberts with toothy smile. “I upped the dosage, which could lead to some mild confusion, sweating, and—well, you know all that, of course…being a doctor yourself.” His smile faded to an awkward grimace. After a pause, the new doctor turned and hurried over to the back counter; he began rustling through cabinets, making a good deal of noise to fill the silence. Eventually, he brought out two paper cups—one large and filled halfway with water, the other small and slightly wider than a coin—and slid them over the pale blue countertop. “Have a wonderful day, Wat—er—Dr. Watson.”

            With a forced nod, John took the two cups and backed away. Careful not to spill anything, he slowly made his way further down the hall and into the common room. It was nearly deserted, save for one blonde woman facing away from him. John took a seat in the corner, and his eyes flicked up to the muted television. An advertisement flashed across the screen in hot-pink lettering:

            _DO YOU SEE HIS FACE EVERYWHERE YOU LOOK?_

            The smaller of the two cups slipped from his fingers, its contents falling to the carpet. “Yes,” John whispered, his hand still outstretched, grasping at nothing.

            _DO MEMORIES OF YOUR EX HAUNT YOUR DREAMS?THEN CALL OUR NUMBER FOR A FREE CONSULTATION SO YOU, YES, YOU, CAN FORGET THAT BOY TODAY AND FIND THE MAN OF YOUR DREAMS._

            The words were followed by an equally bright phone number and the image of a girl smiling and laughing into her mobile.

            John’s hand fell back into his lap. “Fat lot of good that would do me,” he muttered, tearing his eyes away from the screen. As he bent forward to scoop up the paper cup, John heard a voice from the other end of the room.

            “I wouldn’t let them hear you whispering to yourself, you know. They’ll think you’re mad.”

            John quickly sat up. It was the blonde woman; she was now sitting in the stiff chair opposite him.

            “They don’t think that.”

            The woman laughed. “Yes they do. And even if you didn’t come in a loon, you sure are one now. No one could still be sane if they’ve had you too long on that stuff,” she said, jerking her chin towards the paper cup on the floor. “Not even you, _Dr. Watson_.” With one last knowing look, the woman turned and left.

            John watched her until she was nothing more than a grey-clad dot at the end of the hall. He then retrieved the cup and spilled the contents into his open palm. Four shiny, yellow pills stared back at him.

            “And a good morning to you, London…” The television volume had been switched on, and a woman’s loud voice filtered out, crackling with interference. “It’s January the twenty-ninth, 2014, and we’ve got some showers in store for you today. But first…”

            His head snapped back up towards the screen. “January the twenty-ninth,” he whispered, tuning out the broadcast. The date was so familiar, and yet…

            He looked back at the pills. They seemed to wink up at him from beneath the fluorescent lighting. Like faces smiling at his confusion.

            “Who do you want me to forget?” John croaked out, his throat constricting painfully. He didn’t really expect them to answer; maybe he really was crazy after all, like the blonde woman said. Maybe Dr. John Watson was just the ghost of the man he had been…the man before another came into his life…a man whose name he could not even remember but whose face haunted his everyday and night for a whole two years.

            The four yellow pills that he had taken everyday, without fail or question, since arriving in St. Bart’s psychiatric ward did not respond even as he tipped them into the wastebasket on his way out the room.


	2. Chapter 2

**January 17, 2012—Approximately Two Years Ago**

            A face swarm before his eyes, blurring in, then out. He felt groggy, like he’d just woken up from a long, a little too-deep slumber. John blinked, once, twice, before the face refocused.

            “ _Oh my god._ ”

            John jerked forward, but something tight held him back. Looking down, he saw the Velcro straps pinning his wrists to an steel frame. An IV was hooked at his inner elbow. His heart-rate quickening, John took in the rest of the room—it looked like a hospital, but the man standing just inches from the cot was no doctor. With a quick intake of breath, John pressed himself backwards into the pillows as far as the straps allowed. _It can’t be._

The fair, dark-eyed, dark-haired man grinned back at him, as if guessing John’s thoughts. “Oh yes it is, it is, Dr. Watson. _Miss me_?”

            “Moriarty,” John breathed out, trying to not sound as afraid as he felt. He remembered all too well the last time he’d been in this position…and that had ended with a bomb strapped to his chest. “What did—where’s—” His eyes desperately scanned the room.

            “Looking for your boyfriend, hmm, Johnny-boy?” said Moriarty in a sing-song voice. “Sherlock’s not here to save you this time…oh, and I wouldn’t bother screaming.” His eyes followed John’s to the door. “Let’s just say that your little St. Bart’s isn’t as friendly towards poor, _purposeless_ little doctors anymore.” Moriarty stepped back and shoved his hands into his pockets. “Don’t you know what’s going on?”

            “Sherlock—tell me what you did—”

            “Your friend,” he started, his voice an icy whisper.

            “Please, I’ll do—”

            “IS DEAD.”

            The words echoed through the silence that followed. A fluorescent bulb flickered stupidly on the ceiling. John stared at it, transfixed, then shut his eyes.

            _He’s lying. Moriarty’s lying. All this time, all the danger we’ve faced—he always comes back. Sherlock will always come back for me, always, always, always—_

            John opened his eyes. Moriarty was just standing there, smirking, in his smoke-grey suit. “I don’t believe you,” he whispered.

            Moriarty rolled his eyes. “Oh god, you _people_. So stupid, so naïve, so afraid of a little death.” He was muttering now and pacing up and down the narrow room. “They never believe you when you win—all these sore losers, all these _people_ upset with the game.” Suddenly, he turned back towards John. “Your boyfriend liked the game. Oh yes, he did enjoy it…that is,” he cocked his head, “until he lost.”

            He snapped—John wretched at the binding and screamed. He wretched and he screamed and he cursed and Moriarty just stood there, smiling, with his hands shoved in his silk pockets.

            “HE IS NOT DEAD, HE’S NOT. SHERLOCK IS NOT DEAD AND HE FUCKING HATED YOU, HE HATED YOUR GAMES YOU FOUL, YOU FUCKING—NO HE’S NOT, HE’S NOT DEAD. HE WOULD COME BACK FOR ME. HE’S NOT…” John shuddered, falling back against the pillows. He’d never felt this kind of pain before, the kind when someone you…someone you…

            Something hot streaked down his cheek. “What do you _want_ from me?” John whispered, his voice thick and painful. He felt heavy, and it was unbearable.

            “What do I want?” Moriarty asked, looking confused. “Why, John, isn’t it obvious?”

            “Not to me.”

            Moriarty’s look of confusion morphed into that of glee. Slowly, he withdrew his hand from his pocket; in his palm was a small, blue rubber ball—the one Sherlock had bounced against the floor just a few hours or days or weeks ago in the lab while planning. _He was planning his suicide_ , John realized, and his chest constricted painfully. His eyes met Moriarty’s. “I—I don’t understand.”

            Without warning, Moriarty threw the ball to the spot just above John’s head—it ricocheted off the wall with a _thud_ and then back into Moriarty’s hand. John flinched at the sound.

            “Well you see, Dr. Watson,” Moriarty started, his voice eerily calm. The ball flew at John again with a _thud_ , this time missing his head by only a few inches.

            “I had great fun with Sherlock,”

            _Thud._

“But Sherlock was _afraid_ of the Big Bad Wolf.”

            _Thud._

“So the coward jumped to save his friend.”

            _Thud._

            “And _died_.”

            _Thud._

            “Now Daddy’s bored.”

_Thud._

“And there’s no one left to play,”

 _Thud_.

            “But _you_.”

            The ball bounced off John’s face and landed, silently, on the floor.

            John stared at him, his mouth agape. “You’re insane.”

            Moriarty let out a gleeful cackle, bending down to scoop back up the rubber ball. “Oh, John, John, John!” He shook his head, still laughing, and pocketed the toy. “Your boyfriend said the same thing right before he popped right off!” He hooked middle finger inside the corner of his mouth, pulled, and released a soft _pop!_ “Just like that.”

            “So what, you’re going to kill me too?” said John fiercely.

            “Kill you? Why do you people think I want to _kill_ you? Haven’t you been LISTENING?” he roared, anger flashing in his eyes. The man who had just thrown a ball into John’s face was gone. “KILLING is BORING. KILLING isn’t PLAYING, JOHN.” Then suddenly, his face softened. Moriarty slowly shook his head side to side. “Oh no, no, no, John. I’m not going to kill you. We’re going to play, don’t you see? We’re going to play make-believe. I’m going to make you forget all about the Big Bad Wolf. I’m going to make you forget all about the Hero. No one will remember the great detective, Sherlock Holmes. Not even the man who loved him…not even you.” And with a mocking, tearful look, Moriarty crossed the room, his hand on the door. “Goodbye, Dr. Wats—”

            “Wait.”

            Moriarty paused, his fingers impatiently tapping the silver handle. He cocked his head and looked back over his shoulder.

            “Your game—this—it won’t work. No matter what you say or do. I’ll know what you just said, I’ll remember…and I could never forget him…never. Not after…” The words floated out softly, escaping into the sterile room. They were his only hope, and they seemed to disappear the moment they were said.

            Moriarty clicked his tongue, shaking his head. “Oh, John…what makes you think you’ll remember any of this conversation…or anything at all?” He indicated his head to the far side of the cot—John jerked to the side and saw that the IV was hooked up to a monitor. On it was a countdown.

            “Five seconds? Five seconds until…”

            The last John remembered was a tiny _beep_ and the door locking softly in Moriarty’s wake.

           

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

            “John? Is that you in there?” A knock sounded from the other side as the woman spoke, her voice rising at the end with a hint of concern. “Is everything all right?”

            _Shit._ John looked at the locked bathroom door and then back down at the sink. “Shit, shit, shit,” he muttered, then, his voice raised, “Yes, it’s quite all right! I’ll be out in a minute!” At that the knocking stopped, and John breathed a sigh of relief, leaning back against the tiled counter and running a hand through his hair. He felt jittery and that his heart was beating just a little too fast. _And this is only the fifth day_ , he realized.

            John turned to face the mirror, his hands gripping the counter’s edge to suppress the shaking. “Tell me to stop this now,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “Tell me that this is crazy, to stop taking the pills. Tell me that _I’m_ crazy.” He looked up and his eyes fell upon a crack cutting through the mirror’s smooth surface. But it wasn’t the crack he stared at now. It was the face, distorted and split, just beside his own.

            The pale, dark-haired man standing beside John’s own reflection simply smiled and gave a slight, encouraging nod.

            “But of course you won’t answer, you’re a bloody _hallucination_ or something. At least for now…”

            It had been five days since John stopped taking those little yellow pills. On the second day a name, one beautiful, painful name had floated back to him. _Sherlock_. The name was so familiar on his tongue that he had repeated it, whispered, beneath his breath the entire day for no reason other than fear of forgetting it again. On the third day, John saw him for the first time—the face behind the empty memory. He saw him in flashes; Sherlock was there, in his room; Sherlock was there, just down the hall. He was so close but every time John blinked or looked away the pale face was gone. But on the fourth day it changed. Sherlock was no longer just a ghost in name and face but a _body_ , sitting beside him and standing by his side. Still, he did not speak, but John knew it was only a matter of time. John had stopped taking those cursed yellow pillows, and he was not alone for the first time in years. John was with Sherlock and he didn’t care if he was going mad. None of that mattered. He was with Sherlock, and he was home.

            With one last, searching look at Sherlock, John turned his attention back to the sink and forced the remaining pills down the drain. When he looked up, Sherlock was gone.

            There was a nurse waiting for him in the hall, and she gave him a cheery smile as he approached. “Dr. Watson, there you are!” she said, tucking a clipboard under her arm. “I’m supposed to let you know that Dr. M wanted to see you today.

            John’s hand clenched instinctively, and he hurriedly put his hands behind his back. “T-today?”

            “Right now, actually, if you’ll just follow me.”

            Trying to hide his fear, John simply nodded and allowed himself to be led down the fluorescently-lit hall. He couldn’t help but clench his fist tighter to stop the shaking.

            _He can’t know...it’s impossible_ , he thought as they turned the corner. John had only met this Dr. M a few times, but he knew there was something off about him—it was the way the other doctor looked at him, like he was more a child’s doll than a patient. There was something else, too, about the dark-haired man. Something eerily familiar that sent John’s well-tuned senses into red-alert. Dr. M meant danger, and John couldn’t imagine he’d be too pleased if he knew what John had been doing these past five days.

            They finally stopped outside a dark, wooden door. The office was located somewhere in the west-wing of the ward, but they had followed so many twists and turns to get here that nearly all sense of direction was lost. John stood back as the nurse rapped on the door, biting his tongue.

            “Come in,” a man’s voice called back.

            The nurse motioned to the door. “In you go, Dr. Watson.”

            After a moment’s hesitation, John walked up to the door and placed his now obviously tremoring hand on the smooth, silver handle. As soon as he entered, his eyes began to adjust to the dimly-lit room. It was sparsely furnished, with just one desk and a chair opposite it. The only light came from the window, and it filtered in with a greyish tint through the translucent blinds.

            “Ah, John, thank you for seeing me. Won’t you sit down?”

            John turned to the man sitting on the other side of the desk. “Bit dark in here, isn’t it?” he said quietly. He remained where he was.

            The corner of Dr. M’s thin mouth twitched. “I prefer it this way—gives you a cozy sort of feeling, doesn’t it?”

            John let out a short, curt laugh. The sterile, dark office was anything but cozy. “If you like things that way, I suppose.”

            “Oh, I do, Dr. Watson. Won’t you sit down? I’d hate to have you standing for too long unnecessarily…not with that leg of yours.”

            An angry retort flashed through John’s mind, but he bit his tongue and held it in. Of course Dr. M knew about his damn leg. The man seemed to know everything, even things John had never told the hospital before. John yanked back the chair, ignoring the horrible screeching sound that cut through the heavy silence, and sat down. His fingers curled into a fist beside him.

            “Why am I here?”

            Dr. M cocked his head. “I am your doctor, am I not? Your well-being is entrusted with me, John.” He paused, his dark eyes searching John’s face. “How have you been feeling?”

            “Fine,” John retorted, turning his head to avoid his gaze.

            “My staff tell me differently.”

            “Well, then you’d better hire some new people. I’m fine.”

            Dr. M’s mouth stretched into a tight smile. He was clearly enjoying this. “I am told that you stopped coming to dinner. That you are seen muttering to yourself in the hallways…that you are always alone.”

            John turned his head back sharply towards Dr. M, his eyes widening in surprise. Sherlock was standing just behind the doctor’s chair, his hands clasped and resting in front of him. He shook his head, silently, but John understood. He couldn’t let Dr. M know.

            “I’ve always been alone,” John answered quietly, tearing his eyes away from Sherlock. He forced himself to hold Dr. M’s gaze.

            Dr. M’s eyes flicked to the spot where John had been looking. The corner of his mouth again lifted, the movement barely noticeable. “Are you, now?”

            “Yes.”

            “You haven’t been…making any new friends here?”

            “None that I’m aware of.”

            “None at all?”

            John frowned. “Is that all you wanted to ask?”

            Dr. M pursed his lips. “Well, the thing is John,” he started, sitting up straighter. Behind him, Sherlock mirrored the movement and stepped forward, as if to defend. “The thing is that these… _incidents_ my staff have reported may be hinting at a more serious issue concerning your health. And if you have been deviating in any way from your prescribed treatment, there could be severe consequences, such as—”

            “And I’ve already told you—”

            “Hallucinations.”

            The word fell like a stone in a still pool, disturbing the already charged air. John opened his mouth, but no words came out. Noticing this, Dr. M immediately continued on.

            “ _Dangerous_ hallucinations, John. Ones that threaten yourself and my hospital. And if you were to begin seeing such things, then the hospital couldn’t possibly allow you the freedom with which you currently live.”

            John’s eyes darted to Sherlock. _He’s everything I have_ , John thought desperately, closing his eyes as he inhaled. He understood perfectly what Dr. M was saying: confess and continue on living freely, or lie and risk getting shut away, possibly forever. Only one option included Sherlock.

            When John opened his eyes, Dr. M was smiling dangerously. “I’ll let you know if I get an visitors, doctor,” he said briskly, standing up. And without waiting for a response, John turned and headed straight from the room.

            Just as the door clicked behind him, John turned and felt himself smack right into someone.

            “Watch where you’re—” his voice trailed off as he realized who it was; right before him stood the blonde woman from the other day. Immediately, John was suspicious. “Who are you?” he demanded.

            The woman straightened, rubbing her arm. “Mary,” she responded curtly.

            John’s eyes narrowed. “Were you listening the entire time?”

            The woman, Mary, nodded after a pause. “Someone had to make sure you weren’t about to go blabbing to him.”

            John’s pulse quickened. “What do you mean?”

            “I mean that I’m here to help you, John.” Mary’s eyes softened. “I know what you’ve been doing…it’s been kind of obvious, really, with all the flushed pills down the—”

            John clapped a hand to her mouth, and her eyes widened with shock. Immediately ashamed of the reaction, John lowered his hand and motioned for her to follow him into the supply closet a short distance down the hall. Once inside and with the door shut, he faced her. A single bulb swung slowly above their heads.

            “Sorry…it’s just…”

            “Stop. You don’t need to apologize. I understand.”

            “No, I do.” John shifted his weight and raked a hand through his hair. “So you know about the pills…then you know what they’ve been doing to me.”

            She nodded. “You’re expressing typical withdraw symptoms: sweating, nervousness, heightened-reflexes…and hallucinations,” she added slowly. “Is that why you’re doing it?”

            John lowered his hand. He didn’t know why he was bothering to trust her, but something in his gut allowed him to continue. “I don’t know who I am anymore. Two years in this place and now I’m finally remembering—”

            “Is it someone you love?” Mary interjected.

            John swallowed thickly. “Yes,” he said softly. “Someone I thought I’d never see again.”

            Mary stepped forward, and the bulb cast a dark shadow over her face like a mask before she stepped back into the light. Slowly, she stretched out a hand and grasped John’s own. Her fingers were unusually cold. “Then I’m going to help you, John…I’m going to help you see him.”

            John stared at the spot where there hands touched. It was a touch he had hadn’t felt in years, even if it wasn’t from the person he so craved. It felt crazy and reckless—all of it, from wanting to keep hallucinating Sherlock to trusting a complete stranger---but what choice did he have? John was alone and afraid and he knew, deep down, that a life without even the ghost of the man he loved meant nothing at all.

            “ _Tell me what to do_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I finally managed to plan out the rest of the story, so hopefully I'll have time to keep writing! As always, thanks for reading and let me know what you thought.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, and please let me know your initial thoughts!


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